


Atheist

by AlphaStarr



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Fictional Religion & Theology, Fluff and Angst, Hints of Libra's Tragic Past, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is very, very difficult for Lon'qu to love a priest, the type of man who stands against everything he believes-- or, rather, <i>doesn't</i> believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atheist

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying with the headcanon of Lon'qu as an atheist character in a fantasy setting, especially since the antagonist is a God of Destruction. Also because of something said by Naga during the Awakening ritual. Because, really, when you have regular, mortal characters who can defy all odds of death, rending apart the sky with a single Thoron or Falchion, aren't we all sort-of gods?

Libra is the type of man who will crawl out of bed post-coitus for his evening prayer, Lon'qu learns one night.

His thighs are naked and trembling, legs wobbling like a newborn lamb's as he stumbles to the floor of his tent. Lit only by the faint glow of Libra's heal staves off to the side, a faint, glimmering line slides its way down his leg, and it's probably Lon'qu's cum, he thinks with too-warm cheeks. Lon'qu manages to slough off his drowsy embarrassment enough to sit up and watch shaking fingers light a jar-held candle, the last of the midnight oil illuminating an etching of the Exalted Brand on the jar's side. He almost makes a comment about how, if Libra needed the image, wasn't Chrom's tent just a hundred feet away, and Tiki's just the same distance, in the other direction? Didn't you just eat dinner with these people, patch up their wounds, hear them _personally ask you_ about whether you needed more staves before the next battle?

How can you, Lon'qu wonders, form friendships with some "gods" and yet get on your knees to grovel before another?

But he doesn't say this out loud. Libra's damn well capable of making his own choices, and it's far from Lon'qu to patronize him.

What he does say is this: "What are you praying for?"

"For Lady Naga's divine will to deliver us from battle safely," Libra answers after a short pause. His skin is beginning to form goosebumps in the cold, but still he falters not, his forehead still pressed to the dirt ground before the candle. "Whether it be by protecting us on this planet to carry out Her Deeds, or to give our souls rise to Her embrace in death, may she keep us from harm. If you wish to join me..."

"I don't," Lon'qu replies, terse but not unkind. Still, he lifts himself from the blankets to drape a thick quilt over Libra's bent form, shielding naked skin from the brisk air. It makes him uncomfortable, somehow, the way Libra lays vulnerable while he's praying, prostrating himself before someone he can't even see, whose deeds in the land of Ylisse were long ago and mired in legend besides.

Someone who, if she had even half the omniscience Libra seemed to attribute to her, could probably take down Grima herself without involving mere mortals.

Because if there existed a Lady Naga, one who truly wished to protect those in her faith, she was doing a crap job at it. He'd been there when Emmeryn fell from the sky, close enough to hear the sickening thud and crunch of her body, her faith rewarded with her own broken bones. He'd seen Tiki take a devastating blow, ripping a wound on her side that had Libra working day and night to disinfect, her status as the Voice of Naga still not enough to keep her from death's doorstep. He'd watched Chrom slowly survive everyone close to him-- his eldest sister, his dearest friends, his _wife_. He remembered, with a brief wave of nausea, the way Ke'ri had looked when, still in her church clothes, she was butchered limb from limb by bandits, the jade pendant that was supposed to grant her Naga's protection failing in every sense of the word.

And Lon'qu knew better than anyone of the scars Libra bore, the wounds dealt the most faithful priest in Naga's clergy. He, after all, was the one stood watch as Libra held a funeral service for his lost comrades, voice unwavering even as he wept. He was the one whose hands thumbed away Libra's tears, whose lips gently pressed against the discolored tissue of a tiny, long-ago burn on Libra's cheek.

He'd kissed his way across the lashstripes that marred Libra's back, tongued the thick scars over his thighs and shoulders, cried and screamed for _Maribelle, Lissa, anyone,_ as dark crimson erupted from Libra's chest in the battle he almost didn't make it out of. He fought like a madman to bring Libra's torn body to any healer, slew enough foes to paint himself as red as a demon, stood vigil over his bedside like a haunting that day.

He cannot credit Naga. The gods were the furthest thing from his mind, then. Sumia and her recent mastery of the Falcon Knight's stave, on the other hand, he owes an enormous debt to.

A Lady Naga that didn't exist seemed, to Lon'qu, far preferable to one who _did_ and had let these things happen to people she could have protected. He's not about to rely on a non-god to keep _anybody_ safe. Least of all someone he cares for, he thinks, inching closer to Libra. That job would rest solidly on his own sword, and his mortal hands could do more to that end than _any_ higher power-- magic, gravity, and imagined gods included.

He watches Libra's lips mouth the last three words, "in Naga's name," before curving to a smile as he lifts his head from the dirt, a faint smudge dusting his forehead. Those lips that mouthed out a prayer direct themselves to Lon'qu's for a brief kiss, and those same lips part as a quick exhale puts out the candle once more, leaving only the glow of Libra's staves to light the tent.

"Finished?" Lon'qu grunts, gently brushing the powdery earth from Libra's brow.

"Yes," Libra smiles and clutches the quilt around him more closely, as if he's suddenly aware he's cold. "Thank you."

"Hm," is Lon'qu's only acknowledgement. He's not sure whether Libra's thanking him for the blanket or for letting him pray in peace. Maybe both. "Come back to bed."

"If you insist," Libra's eyes seem to twinkle in the dim lighting as he crawls onto the futon with a soft smile, burrowing himself in the sheets and clasping Lon'qu's hand. His fingers are cold, but Lon'qu grew up Feroxian and Libra's hands are warm compared to the northern winters.

Lon'qu gives his fingers a gentle squeeze-- affectionate, assuring. He wants to beg him to stop praying, to stop putting his trust in a being who will not save his life, who likely doesn't even exist, or perhaps exists only as a long-dead manakete from the annals of history. He wants to tell him to put his faith in Lon'qu's blade instead, _it's not that different from the Falchion_ , in a person who will protect him with his skill. His willpower. His life.

Instead, he says, "Goodnight."

But Libra's breathing is already even and deep, his expression melted into a particular serenity that he doesn't bear when awake.

His dreams, thinks Lon'qu, must be blessed.


End file.
